Thankachen, my driver, was psyched to take us on this three day trip since he was originally from Kerala. No doubt he was also psyched because he knew he’d get a fat tip at the end. He took an SUV instead of his usual car, which was good because of the rugged, mountainous, barely-can-be-classified-as-roads roads.
Friday afternoon, after a seven hour drive that featured an overturned soda truck in the street and the joyful looting that followed (more on that next post), we arrived at Wayanad Resort. I’d never stayed at a resort before. And I’d never been to the jungle before. And I’d certainly never stayed at a resort in the jungle before, so I was totally down for this place. And we paid an amazingly low price – once again, the monetary differences between the US and India pay off.
The resort was new, just six months old. As such, not many people knew about it yet, which was why we were able to make last-minute, holiday weekend reservations (Friday was Republic Day). Once there, we ended up befriending the resort’s owner, who told us that one of their two “couples” suites was empty. It hadn’t even been used yet. It was away from the rest of the resort, a small wooden cottage room on stilts, right on the edge of the jungle. The owner said we could switch to that room at no extra charge. I’m sure it was because we were Americans working in the area, and therefore we might have friends we could tell about our swell time at his resort and encourage them to visit. Regardless, we made the switch, stipulating of course that we would need separate beds. Despite it being a “couples” suite, Matt and I were not a couple.
We trekked downhill along a stream, hopping on rocks and hoping to spot a meandering elephant or something else exotic. The air was heavy and humid, bringing about sweat with the smallest of movements. The scenery was gorgeous, save for the plastic piping peeking out from the short waterfalls, leading back up to the pool at the resort.
The room was awesome. There were huge windows from which you could see nothing but nature. When I woke up Saturday morning, I relaxed in a chair with my feet up, looking out the window and enjoying the vibrant sounds of the jungle, which were only occasionally interrupted by the sounds of Matt vomiting, for he had eaten some undercooked chicken the night before.
We had been assured we’d need some sort of guide for exploring Wayanad. The resort owner, who couldn’t find a traditional guide, recruited a member of his restaurant staff for the job. The waiter took us to Chambra Peak, which was a pretty mountain surrounded by hills, covered with round green tea plants. It was a very beautiful, if uneventful trek. “Trek” is kind of a funny word to me, even though I hear it quite often. It just seems a more glamorous way of saying “hike.” I’m all for calling a multi-day hike a “trek,” but calling anything shorter than that a “trek” just sounds silly to me. Whicheva…
After that, we went to Edakkal Cave, which was rather disappointing. I mean, the cave itself – situated halfway up a mountain – was fine, though I’ve been to way better caves in the states. But the overcrowding at this one made it insane. In India, a line of people doesn’t actually mean a line – it means everyone pushes up against everyone else – oftentimes people grabbing you by the waist or the shoulders. You have no personal space at all. And this place was the worst. It was filled with tourists and schoolkids, everyone jostling and shoving and not giving you any room to breathe. A few times I snapped some nasty comments at the people behind me who kept holding my shoulders. And mild-mannered Matt even called out some line-jumping hooligans who were pushing children out of their way. Not fun.
The whole setup was destined to create problems. One long, steep, narrow rocky path led up the mountain to the cave, then the same long, steep, narrow, rocky path was the only way back down. Add a bunch of line jumpers and hooligans to the mix and you end up with a not so great time at Edakkal Cave.
When we got back, I went for a solo “trek” just off the grounds of the resort, along a jungle path that led into “deep forest,” from what I’d been told. I was hoping to spot a wild elephant and hoping not to spot a large jungle cat, for if I spotted it, chances are that it would also have spotted me. Sadly, I didn’t see anything wilder than a lizard. As I traveled deeper into the lush thicket, the trail vanished and the sky was getting dark. And I’ll admit, I flinched a few times when I heard a noise. So I headed back out of the jungle. As complete darkness fell, I fell into a hammock.
That night the resort had some martial artists perform. They wore tribal outfits and used swords, staffs and shields. They tumbled on a cement stage and displayed savage, choreographed moves as they “fought” each other. Like ballet but with weaponry. In their last segment, one of the fighters got a huge gash on the side of his forehead from a whip-like metal weapon called a flexible sword. Blood was everywhere, covering his face and chest, but he continued the routine. After it was over, he wrapped a huge bandana around his head to stop the bleeding. We were assured that he wasn’t actually cut, that the blood somehow came about for some other reason. I forget the reason they gave but it doesn’t matter. It was just a lie to placate the small children in the small crowd. That guy totally got sliced by the flexible sword.
All that stuff was cool – or in the case of the cave, not so cool, but still interesting. But I had been most looking forward to our drive back to Bangalore. We left the resort at 3:30 Sunday morning. It’s horrible getting up that early, but it was the only way we could reach the town of Dubare in time. Yes, we were going to elephant camp.
At the Dubare Elephant Camp, elephants work in the forests, hauling lumber and such. In the process they get very dirty. And as we all know, elephants can’t stand being dirty.
We watched as the mahouts (AKA “elephant guys”) rode the elephants into a lake, a few at a time. A mahout would call out a signal and tap the elephant a certain way, causing it to slowly lower itself, then gently plop into the water on its side. Then the mahout would splash water onto the great beast, getting it nice and wet. This was followed by a hard scrubbing with, umm, elephant scrubbing stones. Yep, that’s the technical term…I guess.
An elephant taking a bath is comparable to a dog getting his belly rubbed. The elephants loved it, they were in elephant ecstasy (elephantasy)? After a little while, the elephant would lumber to his feet, then lie back down in the water on his other side. Can’t bathe an elephant on just one side. Everybody knows that.
There were maybe forty people there, in addition to the mahouts. Since we had paid for the full “elephant experience”, we were allowed to interact with the elephants. So I rolled up my pant legs and walked into the water. I splashed an elephant, then rubbed and scrubbed her with my hands. I guess the elephant scrubbing stones were only for the mahouts.
Other visitors soon joined in the elephant bathing. I’m sure we didn’t clean the elephants all that well, that the mahouts were doing most of the actual work, that we were just tourists play-bathing the elephants. But I didn’t care. I was standing ankle-deep in a lake in India, rubbing a wet elephant’s head. And the elephant was loving it. I can’t say I’d ever pictured myself in that situation before, but now I can’t ever forget it.
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